Squad Goals
by CurseYouSpellCheck
Summary: When a plot is uncovered to destroy the city of Bludhaven, Amanda Waller knows who to call. White knights are unproductive, and Dark Knights are uncooperative. Sometimes, on a suicide mission, you need a few pawns.
1. Punchline

There was something pleasantly tranquil about being in the eye of the hurricane.

Even the Clown Prince of Crime had to admit this as he laid leisurely on his bunk in Arkham Asylum. One of the guards, named Quinn much to the Joker's pleasure, had been kind enough to provide him with a mattress and blanket. Quinn had been reluctant at first, but Joker was nothing if not a reasonable and understanding person. After all, why should Quinn do extra legwork when the Joker could just have one of his goons get a spare blanket from the house of Quinn's mother at 16C Mulberry Avenue? Once Joker had mentioned that, though, Quinn had been more than willing to pick it up himself.

So now, Joker was curled up comfortably on his bed, smiling and allowing himself to enjoy the symphony of gunfire and cries of pain outside his cell. Luckily his friends had been smart enough to disable that stupid alarm else it might disturb his meditation. If these were to be some of the Joker's last moments in this box for a considerable time, he intended to spend them relaxing. Simply floating through the eye of the hurricane and basking in the storm around him. The thunderous rumble of gunfire, muzzle flashes flickering like lightning, shouts of agony and surprise roaring as loud as the raging waves of the ocean. And then... silence. Storm was over, it seemed. The Joker opened his eyes then, listening intently for signs of the victorious side. There was shuffling towards his cell door... more silence... more shuffling... and then a sliding sound?

Joker looked as a lunch tray was slid through the slit in his cell door. However, instead of the usual slush that was usually occupied it, there was a single metallic cylinder. A detonator. Joker's hand slapped over his mouth as his eyes widened, trying to hold back a gasp of delight. Incidentally, the tattoo on his hand gave the clown an equally childish look of glee. He swung his legs onto the floor and sauntered his way over to the tray, plucking up the detonator and whirling around to take one more look at his home away from home before he pressed the red button.

As per usual with red buttons, the effect was rather satisfying. Though Joker was far too engrossed in his farewell to look behind him, he did smile at the muffled boom that sounded outside his door, and the smile only widened when he heard the thud of his door falling over. He turned around stepping out into the hall, he looked at the surviving members of his costumed crime force. A panda, a bunny, a duck, and a- !

"Too soon, man." the Joker frowned towards the guy in a gorilla costume before he turned his attention back to the majority of the team "Now. Where's Harley?"

"Files said they kept her in the cell right down the hall, sir." the bunny explained.

"Great, great." Joker waved a hand dismissively as he made his way over to Quinn's corpse, fishing around until he finally found the man's keycard. He walked briskly down the hall, men keeping a tight perimeter around him as he finally stood in front of Harley Quinn's cell. Boy oh boy, would she be happy to see him. Reaching down, he dipped his fingers into a pool of nearby blood and used it to trace a crude rose design onto his jumpsuit before he finally used the keycard and swung open the door. Immediately, he spread his arms to accept the hug that no doubt awaited him.

"Honey, I'm h-" Joker's theatrical greeting was cut off as soon as he realized he was speaking to an empty cell. Well, almost empty. His outstretched arms dropped simultaneously with his jaw. Eyes glued to the pink and blue spray-paint that lined the back wall:

Jokes on

You.

-Waller.


	2. I'll Be Brief

"Play it again."

Amanda Waller was... smiling. As much as the board was engrossed by the video she'd played three times prior, they were just as amazed by that small fact. It was nothing impressive, just the lightest of smug grins as she watched the surveillance tapes from Joker's latest breakout. Joker, ready to greet Harley. Joker, realizing that Harley was gone. Joker, emptying an entire clip of ammo into the wall out of rage. Joker, calming down and approaching the spray paint to take the blood from his rose and trace in an apostrophe where one was forgotten. It really was quite entertaining. After it cut to a stop though, she turned back to the table of officials, still smirking.

"This footage is from Joker's assault on Arkham 72 hours ago in Gotham City." she explained to them.

"Is there a point to this meeting, Waller?" Derek Tolliver (one of Waller's least favorites) was looking worriedly at the camera, which was frozen on the image of Joker. The clown was sneering at the camera, in the process of sliding his finger across his neck.

"Well, for one, it's to dismiss any concerns that the breach of Belle Reve that happened a year ago won't repeat itself. Once Joker realized that I'd manipulated the Asylum's records, he began to search for Miss Quinzel exactly as I expected. The breadcrumbs laid out for him eventually lead him directly into the Bat's crosshairs. Him along with the assets he'd used to escape are now safely under lock and key. Only difference is now he's kept in that cell." Waller pointed to the spray-painted, bullet-riddled walls of Joker's new home.

"That's all well and good, Waller. But I don't think you needed to call us all here to pat yourself on the back." Tolliver responded. He was really starting to get on Amanda's nerves.

"The point of this meeting isn't about the Joker. It's about some of the assets we recovered from his capture." Waller's glare towards the man quickly silenced any other smart remarks he might've had "We discovered an imminent terrorist attack. Concerning the use of an extremely sensitive bomb. A big one, said to be capable of citywide destruction. A weapon like that in the hands of people like the Joker would be catastrophic to our nation's security."

Waller looked around the room, tempting any more witty retorts. No one accepted the challenge. Good, the kids were learning something. This time around Tolliver even raised his hand to pull her attention before he answered.

"Are we doing anything to secure this bomb?" he inquired hesitantly.

"Actually, we've decided to completely ignore the threat and hope for the best." Waller's sarcasm was mostly misinterpreted judging by the look of surprise on the man's face, and with a roll of her eyes she corrected herself "After a brief interrogation of the Joker, I've narrowed its location down to the city of Bludhaven." she explained, the slide shifted to a satellite map of the city.

"No way in hell did you successfully interrogate the Joker." Tolliver interjected. _Again_.

"Getting people to act against their own self-interest is what I do for a living." came her retort "Interrupting me one more time is against your self-interest, see if you can break my streak, Derek." she ignored David's eye roll and continued her report.


	3. Offenders Assemble

Floyd Lawton was in a comfortable bed. It was one of the first things he noticed as he regained consciousness with a soft groan. Before his eyes even opened, Floyd noted that there was an actual, cushiony mattress beneath his form, one that had definitely not been the one he'd fallen asleep on in Belle Reve. Something was off, and as he opened his eyes, it was very obvious what that thing was:

Harley Quinn. Crouched down at his bedside. Smiling back at him.

"Morning, sunshine." she smiled, fluttering her eyes in time with his as they blinked into focus.

The initial shock was enough to fully cure Floyd of any lingering grogginess from whatever the hell they'd done to him at Belle Reve. He instinctively recoiled away from the sudden presence, though not far enough to comically fall off the bed… a problem Harley quickly corrected with a light shove. She giggled at the _thud_ of flesh against floor as she stood up onto her feet with a stretch.

"The hell's wrong with you?!" Floyd demanded, shooting upwards in frustration. Now that he had his wits about him, he realized that she wasn't in prison garb like him. She was in uniform. He also realized that his question was irrelevant, and quickly changed it to "Where are we?"

"Dunno." she responded "He wanted to wait until we were all awake before he briefed us. C'mon." and with that she skipped out of the room, leaving Floyd to wonder what the hell she was talking about.

A quick inspection of the room and Floyd could tell he was in the bedroom some kind of cabin, a rather nice one at that. He noticed the window leading out into the forest, The cloudless sky revealing a myriad of beautiful stars. The brief thought of escape was quickly discarded when he noticed something far more important in the room: His gear. Laid across the second bed in the room like a mother getting her son ready for school. Floyd wondered why the hell they'd allow a prisoner to have his gear when suddenly his tired mind put two and two together.

The Task Force.

Floyd made his way over to the gear with a sigh, a look of confusion crossing his face as he saw his helmet, vandalized with lipstick to resemble a smiley face instead of the much more intimidating lone red eye. _All the more reason not to wear it,_ he thought as he suited up. He did notice that there was a discreet earpiece added to his gear. Deadshot placed the device in and exited the bedroom.

The parlour was definitely more spacious than the bedrooms, and already Deadshot saw a few familiar faces. Harley was sitting cross-legged at Rick's feet, not unlike a child waiting for a story. Rick ignored her though and turned towards Deadshot.

"Nice of you to join us, Lawton." he nodded, tactical gear hidden beneath a baggy jacket and jeans.

"Sleep well, ya bloody lightweight?" jeered the ever-friendly presence of George Harkness, also known as Captain Boomerang (though mostly known as "that asshole"), who tossed a dart at a nearby board on the wall.

Waylon Jones, aka Killer Croc, gave an amused scoff at either Boomerang's joke or the laughable amount of distance between the dart and the bullseye.

There were a few new faces in the room though, ones he didn't recognize from the old lineup. One was off brooding in the corner. A black-haired woman in a bronze crop top with a rather blunt spider insignia across the torso. Arms covered with gloves were folded across her chest and matching boots tapped impatiently as she muttered a soft "Finally." under breath when she saw Deadshot enter. Deadshot may have wondered why the hell they'd brought a civilian into this if he hadn't also noticed the domino mask and utility belt that made up her outfit, as well as several weapon holsters.

"Who's she?" Deadshot asked the Colonel, nodding his head towards

"That's Ca-"

"It's Tarantula." The woman responded abruptly, apparently not liking whatever answer Flag had been prepared to give.

"Right… Tarantula." Flag rolled his eyes, though said nothing to correct her.

"Well, _I'm_ Bette." the second woman cut in, relieving some of the tension between the two. The redhead was fitted with a pink biker's jacket, partially unzipped to reveal a white tank top underneath. Matching pink boots had the ends of white pants tucked neatly into them as she lounged casually on one of the larger couches. She definitely appeared to be the more amiable of the two newcomers "But the press tends to just call me 'Plastique'."

"She's the bomb!" Harley cut in ecstatically.

"That I am." the ginger chuckled, obviously amused by some inside joke between her and Harley.

"If you're all done with pleasantries, we have a mission." Flag cut in, turning on the small television to reveal the all-too-familiar face of Amanda Waller staring back at them.

"Hello, Task Force X. Welcome to Bludhaven." While her voice did play on the TV itself, there was also a short echo as her voice filled their earpieces. Despite the amiable words, Waller's tone was anything _but_ welcoming.

"We here to save your sorry arse a second time?" Captain Boomerang spoke up, inciting a small chuckle from the lighter-hearted side of the Squad.

"Don't let your win in Midway City go to your head, Harkness. You never know, it might just pop." Waller mentioned casually. No response from Boomerang.

"As I was saying, your mission is to locate and secure a bomb that's being smuggled into the city. Our analysts estimate that you have a maximum of seven days, minimum of three, so hauling ass is highly recommended on this particular op."

"You expect us to find one specific arms deal in the second most corrupt city in the country within three days? Lady, we're your little pet project, not the A-Team. This is a job for the bomb squad. Homeland Security. Not us psychopaths." Boomerang spoke up arguing just for the sake of peeving Waller.

"Folks hear authorities are sniffing around, they'll scatter. Go underground. A couple of supervillains stir up trouble? They'll call it a Tuesday. Trust me, I know about arms deals." Deadshot explained. Boomerang gave a huff, but didn't think it wise to argue. Instead, he shifted the subject of her argument:

"Just because we have a better chance than your other henchman doesn't mean we'll actually succeed. What happens if the bomb is sold and disappears into the criminal underworld before we can grab it? You blow us to bits because _you_ overestimated us?"

"No, Mr. Harkness. That'd be ridiculous-" Waller admitted.

"Damn ri-"

"And redundant. Seeing as you'd already be dead." the end of Waller's statement cut Boomerang's own quip short.

"You see." she continued "This isn't just an arms deal. It's a terrorist attack. Failure to secure the bomb will result in the destruction of the city and everyone in it. Including you 'psychopaths'."

That caught everyone's attention, and for a few seconds there was nothing but stunned silence as the team let that new information sink in.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..." Deadshot finally cut in "Are bomb threats the only goddamn way you know how to motivate people?"

"If it ain't broke…" Waller shrugged, and without another word, the screen clicked to black.

"And on that note." Rick quickly assumed his role as acting leader and got up from his spot on one of the side chairs "We have a bomb to find. C'mon, car's this way."

"Oh, you mean we _don't_ have to walk through an entire city?" Harley asked excitedly, following Rick as he lead them out of the cabin and towards the building's driveway.

"That was necessary." Flag defended, approaching what looked to be a delivery truck.

"Even though we could've just hotwired a car?" Harley continued.

"Ju-, Enchantress was affecting all the technology." Flag countered, opening the driver's seat of the truck and climbing inside. He flicked a button and the backdoor of the truck slid open, revealing a mostly empty space, save for a few meat hooks… and the ghostly still form of Katana. Who must've been waiting for some time.

"Except for the technology you threatened to blow off our heads with, right?" Harley asked innocently.

"Shut up and get in the damn truck." Rick snapped. Harley gave little more than a theatrical pout before she followed the Colonel's orders. Once the entire team was in the back of the truck. Rick turned the key and set out onto the road.


	4. Join the Club

The team's destination was Club Solstice. A nightclub notorious for being a den to some of the most slippery and shadowy figures in Bludhaven. Tarantula, the only native to the city, had avidly testified to the corruption of the establishment, and even given them the name of a known weapons dealer who regularly visited: Armand Bartholomew. It hadn't even taken much coaxing to get the information from her, and that was the primary reason that Tarantula had been drafted for this particular op.

Unlike the majority of Task Force X, Tarantula was not a "villain" in the practical sense of the word. In addition to an abundance of local knowledge and impeccable skill in combat, Catalina Flores was actually a vigilante who'd dedicated her life to the protection of Bludhaven and all of its residents. Although her more… lethal method of vigilantism in comparison to other heroes had landed her in prison. Which had given Waller the opportunity to recruit her to the cause of the task force. While Catalina wasn't too pleased about the explosive repercussions of pissing Waller off, she was more than willing to help her city… despite her less-than-enthusiastic attitude.

And so, on they drove to Club Solstice. The muffled shouting from behind him suggested that the team was already arguing, but Rick couldn't help but smile as everyone fell silent to the sound of angry Japanese and a sword leaving its sheathe. The rest of the truck ride was done in complete silence, much to Rick's pleasure, and it wasn't too long before Club Solstice finally pulled into view.

"Tarantula, you're staying in the truck. Listen in on the police scanners and warn us if any officers try and interfere" Rick said over comms as he pulled into one of the back roads across the street.

"If you want me on the sidelines, just say so." came Tarantula's disgruntled retort, followed by the sound of the truck's door rolling open. A few moments later, Taratula opened the passenger side door and slid in next to Rick, arms folded.

"I know it sucks." Flag said to her "But you're kind of famous to 99% of the people in there. I'd hate to prematurely start trouble… also, if you don't listen to me, I'll blow up your head." and before Taratula could respond he exited the vehicle.

"The rest of you, with me." Flag announced as the remainder of Task Force X climbed out of the truck. It must've been quite a sight. Seeing such a colorful bunch crossing the street, but the fact that they were heading towards Club Solstice probably kept any onlookers from being _too_ surprised. The only ones that they really had to cover was Croc, who was concealed by his standard hoodie, and Rick. Whose casual clothing would hide little else but the tactical knife in his boot. Still, they felt pretty dangerous as they reached the entrance of the club.

Sauntering through the door, as the tailored man behind the main desk saw the group approach, his hand discreetly reached for something behind the counter, though grinned pleasantly at the lot of them as they closed the distance. It was a precautionary measure of course, but it wasn't like it was the first time a rough-looking gang had entered the establishment.

"Table for seven." Rick stated, placing down a small stack of money. The man look Rick up and down, then the raggedy batch behind him.

"Entering this establishment armed costs double." he informed casually.

Rick sighed, looked back at his task force, and placed down another stack of cash.

"Table for seven. Please." The Colonel repeated, clearly peeved at wasting such a prominent amount of their revenue straight from the get-go.

"Right this way, sir." one of the waiters smile as he lead the group past the main entrance and into the proper establishment.

The majority of the club was tinted blue with the intense lights that surrounded the place, though the warm orange light provided by the electric candles, as well as cherry red tables and chairs, helped to break the color from dominating the entire building. The center square of the club was dedicated to the dancefloor while the outskirts of the room were mainly where the tables were positioned. The only exception would be the back wall, where the bar was situated, and on either side of it were spiral staircases leading both up to the balcony level where various other tables were placed, and down to what was assumed to be a basement level for more private dealings. Nonetheless, the waiter lead them around the dance floor, passing a plethora of both clean-cut businessman and rugged gangsters before finally seating them at the back corner with a luscious red sectional sofa. The waiter assured them that he'd take their orders shortly before sauntering out back into the lounge.

"Target's name is Armand Bartholomew." Flag explained, sliding onto the table a picture of a small, plump man. "Our intel says he's got a reservation at the balcony table directly above where we're sitting. Our mission is to convince him to tell us about anything big happening within the next week, particularly concerning our bomb."

"Wait, we're after one of the Bartholomew Brothers? I've bought from these guys before, they love me." Deadshot couldn't help but chuckle at the little oompa loompa in the picture before him.

"Which is exactly why you're gonna go up there and find out about our bomb." Rick encouraged, nodding towards the spiral staircase a few meters away from their table. Deadshot looked like he was about to protest, but whatever words had been prepared were changed into a sigh of reluctant acceptance as he got up and trudged upstairs.

Any frustrated expression that lingered on Deadshot's features quickly melted into an easy smile as he reached the balcony floor, a skill he'd picked up over the years. He approached the corner table where Armand sat laughing with some blonde in a short dress, or he tried before a pair of stern-faced bodyguards stood in his path. It severely irked Deadshot that the duo had the nerve to wear sunglasses indoors, but commenting on it would not work in his favor.

"Hey, Barty!" he called passed the two towards the small, stubby man they were guarding. "Armand, tell the Men in Black over here to get out of my way, would you?"

'Barty' seemed surprised at first to hear his name be used in such an informal manner, but the confusion that riddled his face changed to shock as his eye met Deadshot's

"Deadshot?" he asked, seemingly awed at the marksman's presence. Then he smiled, and threw his arms up as if to welcome the hitman into a hug "Buddy! Get your ass over here, man!"

Deadshot grinned, winking at the bodyguard's before pushing past them and sliding into a seat across from Armand

"Armand, how's my favorite dealer been doing these days?" Deadshot inquired, folding his hands on the table as he leaned forward in anticipation.

"Me? I'm doing fine, bud. How are you enjoying those ricochet disks we sold to you a while back?" Armand replied amiably, his own hands folded calmly in his lap.

"They're great, my man. Useful beyond belief, I tested them out on this mafia snitch just the other week. Worked like a charm."

"I heard about that, pretty big story. Lotta heat from the cops to catch the guy who did it."

"Yeah, but you know me, Barty, always good at disappearing."

"That you are, my friend, that you are. Really good. They tried to trace those ricochet disks back to you, ya know. No luck." Armand's smile had a bit of an edge to it now, but Deadshot dismissed it as harmless annoyance.

"Well, I'm sure your business' popularity skyrocketed once that happened. You're welcome." came the assassin's joking reply, trying to bring the tone of the conversation back to its amiable beginning.

"Yeah, it did. So popular that the feds were able to track my brother and put him away." There was now a definite steeliness in Armand's expression as his bodyguards' demeanor tensed ever-so-slightly. Even the blonde gave Lawton a cold stare. Just when Deadshot was about to respond, Armand continued. "He was stabbed in prison. He's dead. Because of you. Do you know what kind of person you killed, Deadshot?"

"...I'm sorry, Barty. I didn't know." Deadshot said apologetically as his eyes darted between Armand and his guards. Armand just glared at him for a few seconds before finally:

"Don't be. He was a greedy prick."

"..."

And then Armand burst out laughing, along with his girl. Even one of the guards let a smirk slip through their visage. Sensing the lift in spirit, Deadshot himself gave a small chuckle.

"Honestly, bud. You should've seen your face." Armand grinned "C'mon, I make double the profit now. If you think I cared about that obnoxious brute more than my new beach house-"

In an instant, Armand's smile fell as he whipped his hand out from beneath the table and aimed a gun steadily at Deadshot's head.

"-you'd be right."

 _Bang!_


	5. Fight Pub

There was one or two seconds of stunned silence in Club Solstice after the gunshot sounded. The ambience of chatter and merriment immediately ceased, and a wide array of guns, knives, and clubs were drawn as everyone looked towards the table from which the shot originated. The only real noise in the establishment was the music, an ironically calm and jazzy tune that tried and failed to alleviate the awkward silence that had overtaken the establishment. This stillness was short lived, as security officials hurried up the stairs to see what the commotion about.

"Goddammit, Lawton." Rick muttered under his breath, astonished by how fast an assassin of Deadshot's caliber (pun not intended) had managed to screw up so royally.

Meanwhile, Deadshot was just thankful that he was still alive. On the other side of the table, Armand Bartholomew seemed equally as confused as Deadshot was relieved. This was made clear by the look of utter disbelief on the arms dealer's face, his mouth left agape as the immeasurable number of questions all clogged in his throat. Still, that was fine, Armand was a man of action, after all. And the most logical action he could think of was pulling the trigger a second time. So he did, and this time he noticed the second gunshot. Nearly imperceptible the first time, but a second firearm had been triggered in almost perfect unison with his. The muzzle flash of Deadshot's wrist gauntlet, also unnoticed the first time around, was the final clue that Armand need to piece together what was happening: Deadshot, whose hands were still folded openly on the table, had been given just enough time to flick his wrist at the perfect trajectory to intercept Armand's bullet with one of his own, and the cocky sonuvabitch still had the _nerve_ to give Armand that same smug smile as if nothing was awry.

"That's the problem with bad guys these days," Deadshot grinned "Always wanna talk before they kill somebody."

Armand, furious, shot up from his seat and leaned his weight forward in an attempt to shoot Deadshot from a more point-blank range. Armand's guards, sensing an unexpected turn in the struggle, began to draw their own firearms. Deadshot even noted that the broad was now fishing through her handbag with a look of purpose. With only a moment to formulate a plan of attack, Deadshot improvised. Bolting from his chair, Deadshot managed to grab the hand of his target and direct it upwards, the would-be fatal bullet instead shot off into the ceiling of the club. Armand then found that his gun was easily plucked from his hands, and watched as Deadshot removed the magazine before emptying the remaining bullet into the forehead of Faceless Bodyguard #1. Simultaneously, Deadshot caught the falling magazine with his free and and tossed it into throat of the second bodyguard, delaying him long enough for Deadshot to shoot him down with his gauntlet.

Turning his attention back to Armand, Deadshot was surprised to see the dealer in the process of pulling out a second gun from his jacket. Deadshot shoved their table forward, slamming its brim into Armand's large gut and drawing a breathless heave from the dealer before he was pushed back into the sofa. Noticing that the woman had begun to draw her own gun from her purse, Deadshot vaulted across the table, ignored the spilt drinks and food as he used his momentum to kick Armand's partner unconscious. Sliding of the table and landing in a seated position between the blonde and her boyfriend Deadshot aimed his gauntlet and the woman's head at the same moment that Armand drew his gun towards Deadshot.

"Drop it or I put one between her eyes."

…

By now, the club had officially ensued into chaos. Any security official that already been stationed on the balcony level were across the first floor and up the stairs to preserve whatever order still remained in their little crime den. The reaction of most patrons fit into three categories: rushing along with the security detail to get in on the action, staying put in their seats as if the whole situation was just another day in Club Solstice, or hustling towards the exit while still trying to look as tough as possible. Rick Flag and the rest of the task force fit mostly into the second category, though most of the group weren't too happy about it.

"What're your orders, boss? Fight or flight?" Plastique asked casually, watching the flurry of men in suits rush by with a mischievous smirk, it was clear which option she was hoping for. Rick sighed, clearly conflicted as to which option was best. Now Lawton, he was disposable, and there would be little to no extra guilt on Rick's conscience from leaving the assassin for dead. That being said, Armand was their best bet for getting leads on the bomb's whereabouts, and Rick was reluctant to give that up. With a final moment of hesitation, Rick reached out to Deadshot on comms.

"Lawton, is the asset alive?"

Deadshot's voice crackled in everyone's earpiece, though the breaths in between his words were slightly labored "Yeah, but not for long if he doesn't _drop the damn gun._ "

Rick didn't bother responding, mainly because that last part didn't seem directed at him, so he turned to the team "We figh-"

"Finally!" Boomerang was up from the table in an instant, charging across the room to the staircase where a steady flow of guards were gathering. Without warning, he took a handful of some random man's collar and pulled him directly into his awaiting fist. Watching with satisfaction as the man's body fell limply onto the floor, Boomerang savored the stunned looks on the faces around him for just a moment before he shouted two of his favorite words:

" _Bar fight!_ "

…

Armand's attention shifted for a fraction of a second at the sudden cry of violence from downstairs. That was all Deadshot needed as he swatted the gun out of Armand's hand and shifted the aim of his gauntlet from the woman to his target. However, the victory was short lived as the club's security as well as a few trigger-happy patrons all finally reached his little corner and aimed their respective weapons at the marksman. The adrenaline in his veins slowed time to a crawl as he weighed his options. Out in the open, dozens of guns pointing in his direction, dozens of triggers about to be pulled on him in a matter of seconds, solution… find cover.

Kicking his leg upwards, Deadshot flipped the table onto its side, sending alcohol and broken glass flying. Just as the table landed, a wave of bullets crashed into it, a moment before they would've pierced his skull. Pulling Armand along with him to place their backs against the table, he saw that the dealer had _another_ gun tucked into the back of his pants. After easily removing the weapon from the disoriented man, he took a moment to assess his situation again. Deadshot noted with the first sense of hope in a while that the tables were bullet-resistant. It seemed that the club had designed them with this exact purpose in mind. That didn't change the fact that he was pinned in a corner with dozens of guns. At least they were all on the other side of the bulletproof table… or so he thought. Deadshot watched in utter disbelief as Armand went for a _fourth_ pistol hidden beneath his pant leg. This time, Deadshot simply shot the man's hand… and then his other one.

"How _much_ do you need to overcompensate, Barty?" Deadshot scolded, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Armand was far too busy trying to nurse his bleeding hands to answer, but he managed to shoot a glare in Deadshot's direction.

...

Back on the first floor, Boomerang was having the time of his life, he'd managed to punch another guard and even _headbutt_ a third before any of the bullets started flying, and by then he'd dove for cover behind the bar. His… battlecry had been well received by some of the more brutish patrons in the vicinity, and the establishment was soon transformed into a battlefield of broken bottles and firefights. The more professional half of the club had been less eager, but when a bunch of violent morons are coming at you with semis and silverware, it's in your best interest to fight back. So now Club Solstice was nothing more than an urban warzone. Not a table was unturned, not a weapon holstered, not a fist unclenched, all to the soothing tunes of a saxophone... Captain Boomerang's wet dream.

The aussie in question took another swig of some blue shit behind the bar. Boomerang had no idea what it was, but it stung like a hornet on the way down, so it must've been pretty damn good. Some schmuck had gotten a similar idea as Boomerang, since a second patron dove behind the bar in hopes of avoiding the firefight above. After a moment, the man locked eyes with Boomerang, and the two stared at each for a moment before Boomerang silently offered him the blue bottle. The man, desperate and panicked, looked down at the bottle in bewilderment.

"Take a sip. Never know, might be your last." the accented suggestion drew the man's eyes to Boomerang again, staring for a while longer before he gratefully accepted the bottle and began gulping down its contents. The Captain smiled approvingly before he turned his attention back to the bar's stock, looking for something a bit more combat effective…

...

On the side of the room, Rick Flag was desperately in searching for a gun. _Any_ damn gun, he wasn't going to be picky. He'd brought his tactical knife as a "last resort" sort of weapon. Hell, if he'd known that there was going to be a firefight he'd have just brought his rifle. But no, he'd been foolish enough to think that his team was competent when it came to non-combat scenarios. That was on him. Now, as he threw his table onto its side and ducked behind it, Rick was just thankful as Croc charged from their little stronghold towards some of the other groups taking cover behind tables. When it came down to the giant scaly monster or some guy with a knife, it was clear who would draw the most fire.

With a bit more room to think, Rick peeked out from his cover to assess the battlefield. Open dance floor in the middle, a few corpses here and there strewn about it, and the edges of the room completely packed with hostiles behind cover. Luckily, they'd been placed at a spot in the corner, so an attack from the sides was almost impossible compared to the people further placed at the center of the wall. This also placed them closest to one of the spiral staircases, so they might be able to reach Deadshot quicker than others. Rick watched as Croc marched up to one of the groups adjacent to them, shrugging off the barrage of gunfire with little more than annoyance as he grabbed their table and lifted it clear above his head. Like a massive flyswatter, the beast took the flat of the table and slammed it into the trio of men that had been hiding behind it a moment earlier, crushing them between it and the wall. As their unconscious forms slumped to the ground, Croc held the table in front of himself as an improvised shield as he began his campaign towards the next batch of thugs.

Rick shook his head at the spectacle before he turned back to Katana and- Where the hell had Plastique run off to? His question was soon answered by the thunderous boom that sounded near the left staircase. The sudden explosive bang temporarily halted the sound of gunfire into silence as every head turned to whatever asshole had seemingly brought a _grenade_ to a gunfight. What they found was a single woman, red-haired, smirking at the collection of charred and chunky remains of whatever poor souls had been on the staircase when she'd used her… abilities. Watching half of the staircase finally collapse onto the first floor from the damage, Rick was simply glad that such a force was on his side. After Diablo's effectiveness on the team's first mission, the need for "metahumans" grew more urgent, and so Plastique was recruited into Task Force X. Similar to Diablo, Plastique had innate control over a destructive element of nature, although hers was far more… explosive even than Mr. Santana's. As the final flames licked away at the victims of her opening assault, she turned back towards Rick, winked, and began casually walking down the bottom half of the stairs to the basement floor.

Rick was almost to distracted by the explosion to notice a rifle being thrown at his head. Barely ducking out of the way and watching as the rifle clattered onto the floor next to his table, Rick looked towards whichever direction the gun had come from and saw that it had been hurled from… behind the bar?

"Get off your ass!" and Australian accent scolded, Rick noticed that an array of serving dishes had been propped up on the shelves of the bar. Using the reflections, the Captain was tossing boomerangs left and right across the club, the projectiles completely averting whatever cover protected their targets.

"Stop being one!" Rick called back, red in the face as he realized that he's probably been the most useless person in the fight so far. It was either him or Kata- goddamn it! Rick turned to address the woman just in time to see her leap over the table and dashed across the open dance floor to opposite wall to Rick and began engaging the men taking cover against it. It was a risky move, though in all fairness, anyone who looked to be taking aim at the samurai during her charge was swiftly met with a boomerang to the noggin. At this rate, Croc would deal with the men along the left wall, while Katana dealt with the ones on the right, and the two would likely meet in the center of the front wall. A brief assessment of the first floor's situation led Rick to believe that his assistance would be better suited helping Deadshot secure the asset on the second floor, and he had a fairly concrete strategy on how to accomplish such a task...

…

Harley Quinn was having a far less amiable time with the strangers in Club Solstice. Since downstairs was a flurry of gunshots, no one wanted to be out in the open. Meaning that the dance floor was completely empty, and that was just no fun. What was the point of a club if you couldn't dance? None of the bad guys seemed too keen on hanging out, and the guys on her team were... well… a stick-in-the-mud leader, a sociopathic marksman, a repulsive monster, and a crocodile guy. Harley briefly considered joining Plastique in the basement level for a girl's night out, but a muffled explosion from below lead her to believe that Bette needed a bit of space to herself in order to have a good time. After a bit more thought, Harley concluded that the lesser of all evils was Deadshot. Unfortunately for her, though, he was busy upstairs. Perhaps that meant it was time Harley cleared his schedule. Slinging her bat across her shoulders, she began her sashay up the rightward staircase, taking a second to assess Deadshot's problem. Well, it seemed that the moron had managed to get himself pinned into the back-left corner of the balcony floor. Everyone up there seemed to be making a cooperative effort to kill him, since everyone had hoarded along that back-wall balcony and the left-wall balcony and ducked behind their respective tables. Having come upstairs via the rightward staircase, nobody noticed Harley as they trained their guns at the left corner. Now, Harley Quinn was many things, but she was not an attention whore. After all, she only wanted to catch the eye of a particular Gotham-born psychopath. However, after being snubbed by _everyone_ on the first floor. To be dismissed on _another_ was unacceptable. Harley fucking Quinn would not be outshined by some guy whose only skill was to 2nd Ammendment his way to victory. Walking over to the metal railing of the balcony, Harley found herself dangling precariously by her legs in order to look under the balcony and to the bar where Boomerang still resided, getting drunk with… Hell, even _Boomerang_ had found a partner?

"Psst, I need a quick favor." Harley whispered down to him "Can I see some of your explosive boomerangs?"

…

Deadshot was still weighing his options. The shooting had stopped, but he could tell from the sounds of scraping and shuffling that his attackers had set up behind cover, waiting him out. He didn't have the ammo to take all of them, so the safest way to get out of this was to wait for help. After all, he was with the asset. Everyone's job was to save the Armand, so keeping the arms dealer close was a surefire way to get some assistance. Soon enough, Deadshot heard a round of gunfire and a few of the men on the left wall shouting. A quick peek out of cover and Deadshot saw that a lot of the ones closest to him had been shot somehow, their cover completely useless to them as they lay bleeding on the floo- the floor. Deadshot saw it now as bullets began erupting upwards from the first floor, taking out hostiles from below. The use of a rifle probably meant Rick, and he was slowly but surely spraying the entire left balcony. Deadshot heard a few thugs begin to return fire through the floor. That was good. Less bullets going in his direction was good. And from the looks of it, Rick wasn't going down anytime soon, either. Despite both sides having a lack of visibility, there were dozens of clumped together targets for Rick to hit, and only one target for all of them. Deadshot recalled Zoe struggling a bit with probability problems on her homework, but even she would be able to tell that the odds were in Rick's favor. It was only a matter of time before the left wall was dealt with.

Nevertheless, the left wall was (by comparison only) the least of his worries. The back wall held the only safe exit down to the first floor, and that was still swarming with trigger-happy hostiles. Deadshot had just begun to contemplate his chances of surviving a jump unscathed when suddenly the entire balcony shuddered and shook. A quick observation would reveal that the balcony on the back wall had been severely damaged. The supports on the first floor had been tampered immensely and the result was the back balcony slanting downwards, threatening to throw off anyone too slow to grab the railing. Deadshot's position in the corner had made it a slightly more stable position, as the sturdiness of the left balcony helped keep his imbalance at a mere inconvenient tilt. His enemies however, had been put at quite a disadvantage. While only a few unlucky souls had fallen off, the steepness of the slant had toppled most of their cover down to the dance floor, leaving them open. Furthermore, many of them had instinctively dropped their guns to better grab the railing and stay safe. The most horrifying of all these conditions, however, was Harley fucking Quinn. The woman had been bracing herself for the change in balance, and the talented acrobat had no trouble keep on the railing. Mind you, she wasn't leaning or holding onto it like the majority of the men. No, she was standing on it. Not just standing, either. Running. With the thin metal bars practically sideways hanging over the bar, Harley was rushing towards Deadshot's table with a look of absolute glee. She didn't bother looking at Deadshot, she was sure he was gaping in awe at her. No, her eyes were scanning the remaining men on what used to be the balcony. A few of them had held onto the guns, or had backups in their jackets. Harley made sure to introduce their skulls to her custom bullets before they had a chance to recuperate. Hell, she put a few extra ones into a pair of corpses by Deadshot, just because they had sunglasses on indoors. As the tightrope walker approached Deadshot's corner, he began to peek out a bit more from his table, taking aim at a few of Rick's pursuers before a pair of _very_ strong bullets hitting his table sent him ducking back for cover.

"The _hell's_ wrong with you?" Deadshot demanded a second time, cringing slightly at Harley's insane cackle

"Stay down, baldie. Momma's got this." she insisted, not stumbling in the slightest when the railing corkscrewed back to its original position as she approached the corner of the balcony. She ignored Deadshot for the time being, give him a little taste of being outshined as she leapt off the railing and onto the left balcony where about 5 men were still engaging with Rick through the floor. She managed to put a bullet in two of them before she had to dive behind a table. She noticed Deadshot trying to take aim again and sent a few more shots his way. Once again

"Shoot at me _one more time_ , blondie. See if I don't shoot back. I dare you" came Deadshot's irritated retort (albeit from behind the safety of his table).

Once again, Harley dismissed him with a passive giggle. Sliding from cover to cover, Harley found herself ducking behind the same table as one of the three remaining baddies on the left balcony. Reaching her arm over the table, Harley fired four shots blindly into the otherside. Upon hearing a dull thud, she stood up just enough to peek curiously over the table, smiling as she saw the bleeding body on the other side. Another thud from further away signalled that Rick had scored another point for Task Force X as well. One last baddie, big finale time, Harley! Ignoring the railing entirely now, Harley instead hung off the floor of the balcony itself as she shimmied along the edge by her fingertips. Rick, along with most of the first floor, saw her. And Harley took a hand of the ledge to put a finger to her lips with a giddy smile. Rick, too surprised to respond at first, reluctantly nodded after a roll of his eyes. Resuming her careful journey along the edge of the balcony, the acrobat continued until she'd positioned herself behind the last remaining hostile, who was still aiming towards the table she'd been taking cover at last. Climbing silently back onto the balcony, Harley crept up behind the man, pressed her gun to the back of his head and uttered a childish "Boo" before pulling the trigger.

… and listened in anguish to the harmless click of an empty gun.

The gangster, frightfully aware now of the incoming danger, shot to his feet and whirled around to point his gun towards Harley.

"Shit!" grumbled the blonde, thoroughly disappointed by the anti-climax as she kneed the man in the crotch. His lungs released a wheezing grunt, and the man fell to his knees in silent agony, dropping his gun in the process. He was polite enough to stay like that for a few seconds while Harley hastily reloaded her gun, took aim at his forehead, muttered a far less enthusiastic "Boo", and put an end to the man's suffering.

…

With Harley's final gunshot ringing through the club, all fell still again, the shell casing seemed to echo across the room, and everyone took a moment to catch their breath before:

"Now _that's_ a bloody bar fight."


End file.
